


The Vague Ambition To Be

by JiMoriartea



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: And they are Repressed Adoration and Too Done For This Shit Enjolras, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjoltaire only implied as a possible preslash, Gen, Grantaire deserves better, Grantaire has also feelings, Grantaire's increasingly weirder metaphors, Grantaire's patience vs. the brick that is our Fearless Leader, Light Angst, Modern settings, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, TW: Healthy coping mechanisms, TW: graphic description of grass, They tried to make R go to rehab and he actually did go, Well hidden and seemingly irrelevant but They're There, viv la revolution!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26363920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JiMoriartea/pseuds/JiMoriartea
Summary: “I- What?” Enjolras’ face is a mask of genuine confusion. It’s captivating.Grantaire turns away. He can’t do this. He had prepared for the disaster that would be the “Why Are Meetings In a Place With an Open Bar a Bad Idea” discussion. He wasn’t,wasn’tprepared forthis....There's a reason Grantaire doesn't go to the Les Amis meetings anymore. His abstinence is only a part of it.(I needed a positive character growth for Grantaire. With this, I'm giving it to him.)
Relationships: Enjolras & Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35





	The Vague Ambition To Be

**Author's Note:**

> This thing is meant as a study of what would have to happen to set Grantaire's life on a healthier path. I tried to include his dealing with his alcoholism and overall mental health struggles as well as his obsession with Enjolras. (Don't get me wrong, I ship them a lot - there are a few things that need to be resolved first, though.)
> 
> The title is taken from this e&R dialogue in the Brick:  
>  _"Are you capable of being good for something?"  
>  "I have the vague ambition to be," said Grantaire.  
> "You don’t believe in anything."  
> "I believe in you."_

God, he wants a drink. 

He used to buy booze in the retail store he’s passed right now. He’d buy two bottles of cheap wine and disappear for two hours of blessed silence in hidden streets and alleyways.

He’d usually feel like shit afterwards.

Grantaire bites the inside of his cheek, sniffs, hides a bitter smirk in his scarf. How can a memory seem so close yet divided from him by an abyss of experience at the same time?

 _Most relapses occur in the first six months after treatment._ Yeah. Thanks, Ameena.

He’ll be nearing the Paris observatory soon. A part of him wants to stop there, sit on a bench in the surrounding gardens and sketch the trees lit by the setting sun. Maybe colour them later. Or lie on the grass there, among the leaves brown with beginning decay. The peace of it calls to him now that he’s finally started drawing again. _I always liked it when you just sketched, without any need to impress,_ Jehan had told him during their meetup last Wednesday. Grantaire made his excuses not long afterwards, disappearing to his AA meeting sooner than planned. It’s hard, accepting the praise.

On some level, the clear air still surprises him when he takes a deep breath. Grantaire does it often these days - to calm down, to centre himself, to focus long enough to remember Ameena’s words when nothing else makes sense - and has yet to get used to the way it fills his mind. Yet to believe that he’ll be able to keep the clean headspace intact. He can’t allow himself to slip back, not after those months of work, not after Joly and Bossuet’s crushing hug and _sure, stay as long as you need_ \- ...He exhales. If nothing else, Muschietta would _kill_ him for breaking their trust.

Someone’s playing Cheers Darling near the Arago - Saint Jacques bus stop, their rough voice making the lyrics sound real. Grantaire feels into his pocket for some change, taking a look at the busker, before his pace _falters_. There’s a half-finished bottle of cheap wine at the man’s feet and another one laid next to it, _begging_ to be shared.

Turning away, Grantaire strides through the evening gardens with his face downwards and his hands stuffed into his pockets. He wonders - would they tremble if he unclenched them and let them just hang around his hips, swaying with the rhythm of his steps, chilled by the autumn breeze? 

Ameena would nod in approval, pleased with his retreat. With not giving in. Maybe this time it would stop him from feeling like a coward.

It takes Grantaire fifteen more minutes to get to the Boulevard du Montparnasse, his bad leg slowing him down, overexerted from the rush. Two more to come to a stop in front of a small gallery. “Urban Gallery - Pop Art, Street Art,” the sign specifies. How thoughtful they should meet here instead of the Corinthe or Cafe Musain. How _considerate._

He doesn’t go inside, stopping instead at a streetlamp, his shoes touching the short grass next to the sidewalk. After all, Enjolras could have picked the place because of the nearby Michel Ney monument and who is Grantaire to deny him the view? He ignores the fact the statue’s barely visible from his post.

Immediately growing restless, Grantaire massages his right hand, starts picking at the skin around the nails. Stops. It doesn’t help with the faint tremor - nothing does these days. He curses himself for giving in. What is he doing here, anyway? He could have postponed it to the next week, at least. He’s promised Chetta to do the dishes and walk Croissant. His pills are at home, right next to the _We believe in you!_ card Jehan’s sent him during the second week, his planning calendar is there, appointments chicken-scratched into it with India ink, a smiley face so he doesn't forget what’s important, his _space_ is there, _what is he doing here_ -

The door behind him opens, making the bell above chime. It’s a red thing with a black heart - Grantaire knows. He’s been inside a few times himself since his return, finding the bright colours and dynamic strokes on the pieces inside somewhat grounding.

He takes a steadying breath. “Hello, Enjolras.” He’s calm. Prepared. Collected. ...Except he’s _really freaking not._

“Grantaire.” 

The grass before his feet goes from dark green to almost black as another shadow joins him. Grantaire keeps staring right ahead. In the past few months, he’s learned to pick his battles and Apollo-staring while dying inside is _not_ the important one today. _Enjolras_ -staring. 

Tilting his head a little in a silent acknowledgement, Grantaire turns his gaze to the darkening street behind Enjolras’ shoulders. (See, he can use his name, Ameena.)

“R,” Enjolras repeats.

“What did you want?” It’s not a nice way to greet someone who’s been trying to initiate a meeting for the past fortnight but Grantaire’s never been a nice man - all the mirrors would agree. (Self-insulting thoughts are a no-no, right? Sorry, Ameena. Better luck next time.)

Enjolras inhales. “I wanted to talk to you-”

“Oh, you don’t say.” _Stupid._ (Or the _next_ time.)

“-to talk to you,” Enjolras continues, voice clipped, “about next Friday. The leaflet designs. Eponine said you knew.” Grantaire imagines his nostrils flaring at the earlier interruption and can’t help the small twinge satisfaction. Were he in a more cruel mood, he’d poke at Enjolras’ composure. He still remembers how to make it slip.

“Not coming,” he says instead, plain as day, cruelty-free. “Eponine said you knew.”

The grass in front of them changes between shades of dark green as Enjolras shifts on his legs. “She told me it was worth a try. Said you wanted to start painting again, actually.”

Grantaire huffs into his scarf, hurt by the betrayal. Why did she have to tell him? A sudden gust of evening air sways the dirty grass, almost hiding the unsteady rhythm of his breathing. On the ground, Enjolras’ shadow waits.

He has a nice shadow. Lean and, even now, somehow purposeful. Though what the purpose is right now other than to try Grantaire’s hard-acquired sense of self-worth, he has no idea.

Enjolras is wearing his dark red coat, the shape of its lapels unmistakable, making his shoulders seem even more regal than usual. There are small indentations in the sleeves where the metal clasps are. It’s reserved for Important Causes, swaying around him during speeches on equality or corruption or some other shit, making him look bright and dramatic, a terrible force of nature, an _angel_ clad in human clothes. 

Grantaire has to look away. It still stings, the absence of it all. Jehan’s retellings are only a pathetic substitute for being there, in the bright centre of it all. He wonders if he’ll hear about today’s Important Cause as well, about whatever thing made Enjolras don the Red Coat Of Righteous Anger.

...He could ask.

He doesn’t.

Enjolras is watching him now, has been for the last minute. Grantaire can tell because the silence slipped from awkward to suffocating and then stayed there. Resolutely, he keeps his eyes on the rubbish bins near the restaurant opposite. There’s a bag of plastic waste, too close to the paper bin to be coincidental. It rustles, disturbed by the evening air and Grantaire’s hands itch to go and stuff it into the right container, to allow himself the breathing space for something-

Fabric shifts to his right. Then, there is a touch on his shoulder. A light, careful one that speaks of uncertainty more than of care and he _flinches._

“Grantaire…”

 _“Don’t-”_ his hands snap up, shaking the touch off. He needs to get a grip. 

This was supposed to be the big showdown, “La Confrontation Lion” as he and Ameena put it in his treatment plan, Grantaire smirking at the metaphor. The final step to keeping a healthy distance. _And the final nail to the coffin,_ as he privately renamed it in the following dark mood. 

He didn’t want to come, wanted to put it off as long as he could but Enjolras had been _insistent._

“What are you asking of me?” Grantaire’s voice is low, the tremor of it only barely noticeable as he continues: “Surely, in the four months of my absence you could manage to get someone else to paint for your noble cause. You don’t need _me_ to be there, Apollo.” Shit. What was it about better luck again? He sighs, letting his head hang low, low enough to sink into the sea of _we agreed you won’t call him that anymore._

“We couldn’t.”

The grass is still and as dark as an antique wine bottle. Another breath and Grantaire gazes up, searching for stars, invisible through the light pollution. “You should.”

“What if I-” Enjolras goes through a few moves but cannot seem to decide on a gesture. In the end, he throws his arms out, exasperated. “God. What if we _don’t want to?"_

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of Grantaire. “All those years and you become appreciative _now?_ You’ve got one _hell_ of a timing.” He needs distance - if Enjolras plans on being like this, all raw emotions and overwhelming intensity, he needs _a drink._ “No. No, there’s _no way_ I’m going back to that,” Grantaire mutters, only belatedly realising he’s replying to his own thoughts. Sod this. So what? He doesn’t answer to Enjolras anymore. Made sure to get rid of _that_ compulsion as well.

“You know that-” The Bloody Coat of Whatever shifts again. “Grantaire, _look at me.”_ There’s no touch now. Grantaire isn’t sure if he’s glad. “You know we wouldn't make you drink.”

...He can’t be serious.

“We wouldn’t. We could even meet somewhere else - you can even choose a place if Corinthe or Musain are bad for you. I asked Ferre, his flat is-”

“You can't be serious.”

“I’m- Of course, I am. You should be able to sit with us. You have _a right_ to be with your friends.”

Grantaire whirls around in a sudden burst of motion. “Don’t you dare- don’t you _dare_ make me into another bloody cause, Apollo!” 

_Get a grip, R._

Enjolras’ eyes are wide, staring at Grantaire in shock. 

Realising his fingers are clenched around the red lapels of Enjolras’ coat - _not_ that _kind of grip, R_ \- Grantaire forces himself to relax. _God._ Drops his hands. Turns back. “Just don’t.”

“I-” Enjolras' shadow sways a bit, grasping for a gesture, for something to get him back on track. 

Grantaire resolutely decides to stare at the bins instead. They, at least, are predictable. Still there. Still a mess. He’d make a joke about having that in common being a good start of friendship but the ghost of Ameena stops him from that. _Focus._

“Grantaire, look at me.” A hand grips his arm, turning him around so that he’s faced with the coat in all its glory. “Just tell me what you need and we’ll… take the steps to fix it. We’ll come up with a plan-”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Finally, Grantaire looks up with every intention to drill a hole into Enjolras with his gaze. “Not. Your bloody. _Cause.”_ There’s confusion in Enjolras' eyes, determination, the ever-present passion. He makes himself not break the eye contact, a moth challenging the fire. Ameena wouldn’t be happy with such an uneven metaphor. 

“But-” 

“I am AN ADDICT, Apo-” he clenches his jaw. His trembling hands. Closes his eyes. _“Enjolras.”_ He had _prepared_ for this bit, for fuck’s sake. He can do it. 

The air sways as a car passes by and Grantaire summons the last bits of patience. ”I am an addict. That's why I don’t go to The Amis meetings anymore. I can’t do it.” There. Shooting a look to the side, he adds: “You’ve been the one most vocal about it for years, I don’t see why you’re being so daft now.”

“But now you’re-”

“Clean, yes.” He can’t help a laugh at that. “I’ve been to rehab, overcame my demons, found a trustworthy therapist. I’m prepared to face the “challenges of the real world” again and go on my merry way to becoming a respectable citizen who votes, fights everyday microaggression and overall assholery, forever mindful of my own limitations caused by my _leanings to substance abuse.”_ Grantaire finishes it off with a grand gesture, failing to mask the anger and bitterness creeping into his throat. _Merde_. He meant to be _calm_ about this.

Enjolras’ silence cuts the grass in front of them, presses at Grantaire like an oven-hot wall, closing in on him from all directions, creating an impossible metaphor even Ameena can’t disapprove of (- he didn’t compare him to the sun, after all).

After his return, Grantaire had explained it all to Bossuet, Joly and Muschietta as they sat around their kitchen table the first night. To Feuilly who drove him there. In the span of the following month, he’s visited various cafés, retelling it to the Amis that hadn’t heard it from Mushietta yet. He’d told Gavroche during one afternoon spent scouting the abandoned buildings in the suburbs for inspiration. (He still prays Gavroche puts his chatterbox powers to rest with this one). Damn. He’d explained it to _Éponine,_ for fuck’s sake, why he couldn’t face them all at once, why he couldn’t go back to their favourite places, why he still had troubles painting. They had a screaming match after her insistence that he should just try, _just once._

God knows why none of them bothered to pass the info along to Enjolras.

The man in question shifts, finally breaking the silence with a repeated assurance: “We wouldn’t make you drink.”

“Do you- Do you need me to _spell it out_ for you?”

“What-”

“Are you being obtuse on a purpose? Because, frankly, I’ve known you can be a bit daft but even you can’t be _this_ blind, Enjolras.”

“I-” Enjolras’ face is a mask of genuine confusion. It’s _captivating._

Grantaire turns away. He can’t do this. He had prepared for the disaster that would be the “Why Are Meetings In a Place With an Open bar a Bad Idea” discussion. He wasn’t, _wasn’t_ prepared for _this._

“R, _please...”_

He’d wanted to do this with _dignity._ “Do you even-” his voice wavers. “Do you even know what you’re asking anymore?”

The silence is answer enough. He takes a moment to swallow, to get some of his composure back. Better get it over with - there’s no way Enjolras will let it rest _now._

The grass is a washed-out black where Grantaire’s shadow moves away from the lamppost. “I don’t mind meeting you guys in small groups. Or together, even, when it’s not in Musain or Corinthe. Hell, even the Musain is fine!” (Breathe out. Close your eyes. Imagine you’re telling this to Ameena’s plant.) “The thing.., the thing I can’t do is The Amis.” (There, see how well it goes.) “The speeches, the, ah,… the _passion.”_ The passion in your eyes as you strip the world of all layers until there’s only you in its centre, only you I can focus on.

Silence.

“The passion in your eyes whenever you... _fight_ for something important.” A swallow. “The pull of you. I can’t do _that_ any-” Fuck this. “I can’t do _you_ anymore.” 

Grantaire looks away, watches the gentle circles of light seeping into the sidewalk all the way to Michel Ney. “Not yet, anyway.” It’s a weak thing, his breathing, made strong only by the circumstances. “I’ve,” a shaky laugh. “I’ve learned my limits and this is where I draw the line. I’ll paint your damn posters if you want but that’s _it.”_

(See, Ameena? How’s this for an estimable act?)

Ameena. She would have been proud of how little his voice broke at the last words. At how he managed to still his nails from picking at his skin, from drawing blood. How his words sounded only a little bit wrecked, his eyes felt only a little wet.

Enjolras takes a long breath beside him. _“R,...”_ Grantaire would be lying if he said that the way his voice shook didn’t make him feel better. As though Enjolras, too, was aware of the tightness around Grantaire’s throat whenever he had disappointed him in the past. As though he knew how suffocating it could be to keep up the pretence while arguing about politics. As though he _cared._

Grantaire doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t know whether he fears more what he would see in Enjolras’ expression or of what he _wouldn’t._

Enjolras clears his throat. “So,...” Swallows. Fails to continue.

Grantaire, eyes closed against the distorted vision, shrugs. Makes himself answer. “Nothing. I go back to the AA meetings and appointments with my wonderful therapist and you go back to planning the next revolution.”

“I see... Do, um, do we-”

“Nope.” He doesn’t want to know the rest of the sentence. “Pass the info about the leaflets to Jehan - he’ll tell me. Or to Joly or the others, I’m staying with them.” Grantaire wants to say more, wants to somehow stretch this - the last time he shares space with Enjolras for the foreseeable future. 

To _hell_ with it, he’s feeling talkative. “I can’t really live alone yet, my life is too much of a mess for that, you know. At least Ameena - my therapist - thinks it won’t be good for me. Can’t say I have the cash for it, either.” He laughs, humourless. It seems like, as soon as they’d finally gotten over the elephant in the room, Grantaire can’t stop talking. “The support group is great, too. I think you’d like Jacques, he reminds me of Feuilly sometimes. Or Antoine, she’s-” He exhales, laughs. “You don’t want to know all that, sorry.”

Enjolras’ huffs out a small laugh, his hands probably stuffed into the Scarlet Coat of Desire to stop shaking. They’ve got _tha_ t in common, at least. “I'm glad, you know,” he starts.

Grantaire’s voice turns serious. “I don’t need your approval.” 

“No, you don’t. I-” he swallows again. “I apologise.”

Grantaire doesn't fight the lump in his throat, only managing a vague nod of acknowledgement. 

“I _am_ sorry, Grantaire.” Enjolras inhales. “I don’t-”

“Yeah.” He looks away. “That’s…” _God._ He has to blink a few times, focusing on the _bloody plastic rubbish_ to keep his composure. God damn it. Why does Enjolras have to screw up every stable moment they have? He’s- damn, he’s _apologising._ The first true apology Grantaire has ever gotten from him. Maybe, one day, Grantaire will even be able to listen to the offered clarification.

The seconds between them stretch into minutes as a few cars pass by, drunken students laughing from their windows. For once, it’s easy for Grantaire to fight the craving to join them.

“Here,” Enjolras says after a while, bumping his hand into Grantaire.

Frowning, he turns and takes the paper bag Enjolras is giving him.

“Seemed wrong to come empty-handed.”

There’s forced lightness in Enjolras’ voice and Grantaire's brows furrow in suspicion. He uncurls the once precise folds, now hopelessly scrunched together, and slides his hand in. Cool metal touches his fingers and he grabs it, pulling the gift out.

 _“Oh.”_ It’s a tube of paint. “Red, seriously?”

Enjolras shrugs, hands still in his pockets, watching the bins opposite as though they hold the answers to all his revolutionary dreams.

And, because he might die if he doesn’t know, Grantaire rasps: “Who..., _whose idea…?”_

“Jehan.”

“Ah.” Grantaire puts the tube back. Folds the paper bag, noticing a familiar logo of an art supplies shop he used to frequent. Puts the bag into his pocket and it could be made of carved glass judging by the way he slides it in, keeping his hand in a secure grip around it as though it might _break_ if he doesn’t. “Thank you.”

Enjolras studies the grass, their positions now reversed. “You’re welcome.”

With growing intensity, Grantaire becomes aware of something like an understanding between them. A layer of mutual ease. He tries to search for any remaining bitterness, for the anger, the desperate need for connection and approval and, yes, he finds it. It’s calm, though. Sated.

It’s been a part of him for years. There’s still the pull he feels when he’s around Enjolras, a steady undercurrent of awareness, of unhinged need. He’s learned not to let it consume him, though. Most of the time, anyway. It seems impossible to imagine his world without it. And yet. 

His priorities are different now. Healthier, Ameena would say. They have shifted at some point, the change passing him unnoticed, tilting his whole world a few degrees sideways, a few degrees closer to where it should be. It still revolves around the same sun (no, Ameena, he has _a right_ to one sun metaphor a week and _this_ is how he's spending it) but now it’s broader somehow.

He knows there is a very real possibility the ugliness will break out again in cruel words and desperate actions and he’ll be bringing Ameena another potted plant as an apology (and she will only smile, telling him he should start bringing gardening tools as well). He knows this is by no means the end of it or even the _half_ of what lies ahead.

It’s a start, though. And, for the first time in the past few months, Grantaire feels prepared. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

>  ** _Things you don't need to know yet I'm telling you anyway :'3 :_**  
>  • I have a strong suspicion my brain used this as a coping mechanism with Things happening around me these days and I only wish they will have a similar ending one day  
> • _Naming Grantaire's psychiatrist._ Gosh. Apparently, the default "Grace" my mind came up with originally _wasn't good enough_ as Paris is a multicultural place and I needed my words to reflect that O...o (Ameena is a Swahili name meaning "trustworthy". I imagine she's got premature grey streaks in her hair and a knack for picking _just_ the right music for any situation.)  
> • _Croissant_ is Joly, Bossuet and Muschietta's ferret! It's light brown and received its name after one incident we _Do Not Talk About, Joly_.  
> • I'm in no way good at French so if anything irritates your francophone sensibilities, please tell me :'3  
> • The meetings Grantaire attends are at 58 Rue Madame in Paris which I believe is reasonably near the supposed cafe Musain. (hence in a believable distance from R's probable flat. Well, Joly, Bossuet and Muschieta's flat, anyway xD)  
> • I can't _believe_ how many times I've misspelt Bossuet and Musain here. I feel ashamed.
> 
> ――――
> 
>  _Comments give me life!_ If you have any interesting input, kind words or constructive criticism, I want to hear it all :'))


End file.
